


(if i fall asleep) the shadows win

by devviepuu



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, F/M, romantic suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29269989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devviepuu/pseuds/devviepuu
Summary: Private investigator Emma Swan is working the case that will make her career when everything goes to hell and a meeting turns into a crime scene.   Her mentor is dead, her client is injured, and an innocent woman is about to be found guilty of a crime she didn't commit.The police have no leads and no suspects, so Emma launches her own investigation.  She doesn't want--or need--help from anybody, but she's in the deep end, the water's over her head, and the killer could be looking for her next.Enter Killian Jones.But now they're both in danger--and their best chance at survival is if they save each other.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

She watched them through her long-range zoom lens, crouched low over the seat. It was a study in contrasts: a sleek gray Mercedes S-class, easily a hundred grand, nestled next to a light-colored and battered Honda Civic. Both cars were parked in front of a double-wide trailer, the only light a flood perched atop an empty gatehouse.

Everything else was pitch dark, which made it difficult to get a clear photo of the license plates.

 _Click_.

The woman watching took a bite of her sandwich--her favorite sandwich, actually--as she adjusted the camera and zoomed in closer.

No water to wash it down. Not even a piece of fruit.

Never on a stakeout.

The woman had been doing this for a long time. Too long, maybe. But she knew the rules.

A tall figure in a suit, with a prominent nose and jawline, exited the trailer and was silhouetted by the floodlight. “What have we here?” she muttered to herself. Her sandwich was completely forgotten as she crouched lower to focus on the petite blonde walking slowly behind Nose as if she was deliberately keeping distance. He strode into the night, eyes only for the Mercedes; Blondie turned her head nervously.

“Holy shit,” the woman watching them said. _Click. Click. Click_.

A third figure emerged from the trailer, carrying a black duffel bag.

 _Click_.

The man carrying the bag went to the Merc and its lowered window and slid the bag into the passenger seat while Nose ignored both him and the bag. Bag-man then reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. This went to Blondie in the Civic.

 _Click. Click._ If it was possible to smash the shutter button, the woman watching them was doing it, her heart pounding with every touch. It was hard to be sure--but--that profile was familiar, in the boat-like sedan. The boat-like sedan a man on his salary _shouldn’t_ be able to afford. And Bag-man’s mop of dirty-blonde hair, spiked up on one side, that was all _too_ familiar.

 _Click_.

This was it. This was the connection they had been looking for. The woman reached for her phone and clumsily tapped out a text. _I’ve got something for you_ , it said. She started to lower the phone--stopped--sighed--and typed it out again.

Hit send.

He wasn’t going to be happy to hear from her any more than she was happy to be reaching out--but if he found out later that she hadn’t told him he’d be even more upset.

She owed him this, at least.

If he answered her--well, then they could talk. Bury the past and stop running.

Bag-man watched Blondie and Nose drive away, lighting a cigarette while he waited. The woman watched the embers blaze when he inhaled, watched him flick the ash and stomp out the butt.

He turned to go back into the trailer and--

Oh. Oh, _fuck_.

The woman almost dropped the camera as she scrambled back into the front seat. She turned the car on and kept the headlights off, hoping she was far enough away from the floodlight to be somewhat invisible.

She’d been made.

\--

Emma Swan gripped the steering wheel of her ancient Beetle and prayed it wouldn’t skid in the rain.

She needed a new car.

The yellow Bug had six-digit mileage and a cloned VIN and a bad transmission but she refused to trade it in. She couldn’t afford it, for starters. She didn’t want to, for another. Emma Swan was many things--not sentimental, exactly--or so she told herself--but mindful (see also: ‘guarded’, ‘prickly’, ‘broke’)--and the Beetle was a reminder. On her better days it was a reminder of how far she’d come. On her worst days it was a reminder of how far she still had to go. And, really, she should start by getting a _new goddamn car_.

But cars cost money.

Money which she didn’t have.

The engine light flashed and Emma swore. She’d just had it in and Gus said it was fine, but people lied. Often.

Always.

And Emma Swan could usually tell.

That’s how she got paid.

Speaking of: Her phone buzzed on the seat next to her and Emma swore again, because she was going to be late for her meeting and Milah _hated_ it when she was late. Milah had _rules_. Emma hadn’t grown up with too many rules--that’s what happened when you got shipped from family to family. Sometimes she had to be on time for dinner, sometimes no one cared. Sometimes she had chores and allowance. Sometimes she had to hide her stuff. Sometimes she had to hide, period.

Even the basics--don’t lie, don’t steal--had gotten distilled down to _don’t get caught_.

(Emma hadn’t even been able to do _that_.)

But Milah, she had rules and she tried to instill them; some lost, long-dormant, almost-motherly instinct coming to the surface twenty years too late, as if she wanted to be motherly and had just forgotten how.

It might be true, for all Emma knew. Milah had a kid--and an ex--and neither of them was ever spoken of. _Ever_. Emma had done some digging over the near-decade she’d known Milah and come up empty every time, which meant that Milah had gone to great lengths to render herself untraceable. Invisible.

Emma was really good at her job--she had learned from the best--but Milah was, unquestionably, better. Even her business name led nowhere, a shell inside a shell and everything was owned, registered, paid for and maintained by the business.

Even most of the clients came by referral.

Milah Gaumond did not want to be found.

Emma had never fond so much as the age or gender of the spouse _or_ the kid; it felt unfair when Milah knew everything about her and in the most embarrassing way possible. Their relationship was not an easy one, but it was the only one Emma had. That’s what happened when you were fresh ot of prison and on the run at eighteen--it didn’t leave a lot of opportunities for family ties. They’d latched onto each other, a pair of symbiotes, each dependent in some inexplicable way on the other and for all of those years, Emma had followed the rules.

And now she was late for a meeting that Milah brokered and she was going to be _pissed_ , besides the fact that Emma needed this meeting, she needed the exposure--the chance to make a good impression on a client who could keep her in Pop-Tarts and Netflix and fucking _car parts_ for the foreseeable future.

Regina Mills had made a fortune defending wealthy clients accused of serious crimes. Every photograph, every second of her on newscast B-rolls showed her in one of her trademark pantsuits: Simple, impeccably tailored, so expensive they made Emma’s wallet hurt just to think about them. There was nothing masculine about her, though--exactly the opposite. Regina Mills did not hide her femininity. She _flaunted_ it. It was part of her style and part of her strategy down to her blood-red lipstick and matching nail polish as her smile and demeanor went from charming to soothing to terrifying and back again all within a single pointed question. High-stakes, high-pay, high-profile, and she was the best in the game. Like she snapped her fingers and _poof_ , magic, her clients got off.

But to do what she did, Regina needed people like Milah--like Emma--someone who would do the work and find the truth, whether it was good or bad or ugly. PI work wasn’t glamorous but Emma _was_ good at it, and she enjoyed the challenges of cases like Regina’s in between skip-chasing after deadbeat dads or waiting for hours in the car on the money-shot of a cheating spouse. Emma had, very slowly and _very_ carefully, built up a record with Regina, working for Milah behind the scenes.

Today that would change.

The Beetle made the last turn, Emma’s knuckles bright white and nearly poking through her skin as she spotted Milah’s mid-nineties dark red Bimmer tucked in behind a majestic green vintage Mercedes in the driveway of a white two-story Colonial Revivalist mansion. She slammed the brakes and felt the rear wheels start to fishtail as a jogger ran by and pulled her from her thoughts. _Fucking asshole_. Who ran in the rain? Idiot had a hood up and nothing else and now--

Now, she was late. Officially.

Emma pulled over to park on the street with a sigh of relief before she yanked on the rearview mirror to give herself one last check. Her mascara was a bit runny and her curls were a bit flat and Emma sighed again as she forced the door open, put her feet on the ground and traded her flats for heels to match her black pencil skirt. The rain would do no favors for the cheap imitation leather but at least she looked the part. Emma ran a finger under each eye and took a deep breath before she grabbed her red leather jacket and her case file. No umbrella, not that she had any that weren’t broken. Emma squared her shoulders, crossing the street and walking up the driveway.

This wasn’t one of Regina Mills’ typical cases. And she needed Emma specifically: _People vs. Belle French_.

Because Emma Swan’s real talent was finding people. If a client could afford it, Emma could usually find whomever they were looking for. But she was also great at helping people disappear. People like Belle French who stumbled into her office, hair mussed and showing the strain and bruises that impeccable makeup couldn’t quite hide. Belle had been stuck in a disaster of a marriage, she explained. Her husband was emotionally abusive. Power-hungry asshole. Possibly, if Belle’s ramblings could be believed beyond the basics, an actual criminal. That wasn’t Emma’s problem, though--she just needed to get Belle _out_.

Emma wiped her off the map. Job done, at least until Belle committed the cardinal sin for a person on the run: She came back.

That’s what Emma still didn’t understand--the why. _Why_ had she come back?

Because that’s when things had gotten really bad: Will Scarlet, Belle’s boyfriend, shot dead in the house they shared. Belle had GSR on her hands and blood all over her clothes and the cops had taken one look at her, thought “garden-variety domestic”, and read her rights. Didn’t ask any more questions.

Hours and hours of news coverage of Belle as unstable, alcoholic. Her ex-husband in his custom three-piece suits with the matching ties and pocket squares and perfect alibi smiling sadly at the cameras.

“Mr. Gold--”

The way his gold tooth glittered when he clucked his tongue sadly and answered the reporters’ questions, covering his words with a patina of regret that did not quite hide the smugness. That’s why, no matter what the cops said, Emma Swan still had a _lot_ of questions. She tightened her grip on the file folders and knew this was her moment, Milah’s summons to _this_ meeting. Regina Mills was determined to prove that Belle French was innocent, and the trial started in less than a week.

Now all they needed was a little magic.

The air was cool and damp and smelled like fresh-cut grass and Emma took a deep breath as she stood under the parapet of a large second-floor balcony and knocked on the carved wooden door.

Milah answered it as Emma was mid-knock. “You’re late.”

“Where’s Regina?” Emma said, looking around as Milah took her elbow and pulled her into the house.

“On the phone.” Milah gestured with her chin. “You’re _late_. And damp.”

Emma was _soaked_.

“It’s raining. Jeez.”

Milah looked put together as always, a slight frizz in her long, curly hair the only betrayal eked out by the rain, but her skin was pale and her eyes were bloodshot. She looked like hell and Emma bit her lip.

A ghost of a smirk flitted across Milah’s face. “Yeah. I know how I look.” She put an arm around Emma’s shoulder, an awkward hug that Emma leaned into until she was overwhelmed by the scent of Milah’s fancy French perfume. “It’s good to see you. Get yourself settled in the office while Regina finishes up. It’s going to be a long night and we have a lot to fill you in on. We’ve just ordered dinner.”

Emma nodded. The foyer of this place was large and airy and white and Emma’s entire apartment would fit inside it with space left over. Milah pointed at the office, a wide room, well-lit with a wall of windows. The decor was black and white and stark, tastefully minimalistic, and the centerpoint was a desk facing away from the window wall. On one side of the room was a table that could seat six covered in paperwork and files and on the other was a white couch facing a fireplace. Regina Mills sat in all her splendor at the desk, her legs crossed as one heel tapped impatiently against the tiled floor. There was a fire in the fireplace to keep the chill out of the air.

Emma stepped forward and held up the manila folder. “Hey, actually, I need to tell you something I found this afternoon, because it doesn’t fit in with the case theory--”

But Milah wasn’t paying attention. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, checking her phone with a frown on her face. “We’re dealing with something much bigger now. I’m going to give a full briefing and we can discuss it then.”

“A full briefing on _what_? Milah--”

The doorbell rang; Milah held up her hand to stop Emma speaking and glanced toward the door. “That’s our food. Go, sit. Please?” Milah gave her a sad smile.

“Yeah, of course,” Emma said.

She stepped into the office just as Regina hung up the phone. Regina Mills was, in person, medium height even with her sensible (expensive) black pumps and infamous pantsuit, though her hair tonight looked like she had run her fingers through it a few times instead of getting a professional blowout. “Miss Swan,” she said, with something that might have been a smile as she looked Emma up and down before she was cut off by a crash coming from the front door.

“Milah?” Regina called as Emma whirled around and ran back into the foyer and dropped to her knees.

Milah was sprawled on her back, clutching her chest. Blood seeped through her fingers and Emma’s breath caught just as something moved in her peripheral vision. She whipped her head around, trying to follow the movement of a dark figure sprinting to the dining room.

“Hey!” Regina had followed behind her but Emma turned back to Milah. Blood was gurgling from her mouth now and her eyes were wide with shock. Emma had to swallow her bile as she reached for Milah’s hand, grasping it tightly while she reached with the other for her phone, desperately poking _9-1-1_ and knowing it was probably too late.

A crash came from the kitchen, and a sharp yelp--two low sucking sounds that were unmistakably gunshots, muffled by a suppressor. A vase shattered and something stung Emma’s cheek as she let go of Milah’s hand and dove behind a sofa and banged her head on an end table.

 _Fuck_.

The intruder was _shooting at her_.

Her phone glowed in her hand--the call had connected--but Emma stabbed at the mute button and flattened herself along the tile floor, trying not to make a sound.

She could still see Milah in the foyer and Emma couldn’t--she _couldn’t_ \--

Emma crawled back toward her. She grabbed a pillow and crushed it against Milah’s chest, anything to absorb the blood and stop the bleeding, but the pillow quickly soaked through and Milah remained unmoving.

That’s when Emma threw up; blood covered her hands and she felt a surge of panic as she imagined the shooter coming up behind her and putting a bullet into her skull. She checked the phone again, wondering if the dispatcher could trace the call.

There was no sign of Regina.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

And then--an ear-splitting shriek.

\--

Mary Margaret Blanchard knew it was bad even before she stepped into the house. Five patrol cars in the street, two SUVs and the CSU van. The media would not be far behind, Mary Margaret knew. Reporters and their scanners and they loved to make her job harder.

Meanwhile the tang of blood wafted out the open door and into the evening air, almost painting the sky red as the sun started to set. Her paper shoe covers shuffled against the tile floor as she followed the trail of broken objects d’art from the blood spatter in the foyer to the dining room and into the kitchen, where there was a smaller bloodstain pooling on the butcher-block island. Behind her, Ariel Delamare let out a sigh as she caressed one of the broken vases.

“Do you have any idea how much these are worth?” she asked. She sounded awestruck.

“Nope,” Mary Margaret said. “But I’m not an obsessive craigslist estate-sale stalker like you are.”

“Don’t be jealous.” Ariel flashed a grin before turning serious again. “So, the homeowner was here, in the kitchen. Our other vic--” she pointed, waving back toward the foyer “--opened the door and got hit, point-blank range. It doesn’t look good.”

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret said. “I heard. Are the victims a couple?”

“No,” Ariel said, checking her notebook. “Well, you’ve heard of Regina Mills. This is her home. Apparently our vic was a PI consulting with her on a case.”

“Regina Mills? The evil queen of the defense bar?” Mary Margaret’s eyebrows went up. “Yes, of course. Who hasn’t?” A suspicion rumbled up in her chest and she said, knowing the answer already, “Wait, which case?”

Ariel’s answering nod was grim. “French, yeah. The one who killed her--”

“Spencer’s taking that to trial _next week_ ,” Mary Margaret said. “Ashley’s testifying!”

“--anyway,” Ariel said, “ _Her Majesty_ managed to get up and set off the alarm, and they took her to the hospital along with the investigator. We’re waiting on a status update.”

“Anything stolen?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Couple of laptops,” Ariel said. “But it’s weird--I don’t think they took anything else. They broke a lot of really valuable stuff--” she sighed “--but nothing like a normal robbery. There's a partial footprint on a shipping envelope on the floor in the front hallway. Someone just rang the bell and opened fire. Witness says they were expecting a food delivery.”

“Witness?”

“Yeah,” Ariel said, glancing down again. “Another PI. Swan. Emma Swan. Perp shot at her and missed. She’s kind of a mess.”

Mary Margaret shot Ariel a dirty look.

“It’s okay, mom, you can go and talk to her now,” Ariel said. “Poor kid.”

“Kid?” Mary Margaret was surprised.

“Twenty-eight,” Ariel said.

“So are you!” Mary Margaret laughed. “And I'm only thirty!”

“But I’ve had your mother-henning for two years now--” Ariel pointed out.

“--I prefer it when you call it ‘wisdom and experience’,” Mary Margaret said. “Where is she?”

\--

Emma was on the back porch, perched on a chair and wrapped in a shock blanket. Her hands were trembling so much she sat on them but everything else seemed far away. The smells, the sounds, the feelings. All of it.

Emma was still wet from the rain.

Milah hadn’t been breathing when the EMTs took her away.

Emma really didn’t want to puke again, especially not in front of the cops who were gathered on the far side of Regina’s patio. The lights from her pool made them glow, like they weren’t real, and they seemed far away, too.

Except for one.

She was petite, brown hair in a pixie cut and warm, friendly green eyes. She had on a pink cardigan and a white camisole under her official windbreaker and Emma couldn’t help but smile at the contrast as the woman approached her.

“You’re Emma, right?”

Her voice was soothing and melodic but Emma eyed her warily all the same. “Yeah.”

“Mary Margaret Blanchard,” she said with a slight smile.

“Right,” Emma said. “Look, Detective--”

“Mary Margaret is fine,” she said.

“Right,” Emma said again. Took a deep breath, exhaled, took another. “Can you just tell me what happened to--”

“I’m sorry, Emma.” And she sounded genuinely sorry. “It’s not looking good. Can you tell me what time you got here?”

“Late,” Emma muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Around six-forty,” Emma said, louder. “I was running late. The rain, and my car, and--” She stopped. Never answer a question that hasn’t been asked--that was one of Milah’s rules when dealing with cops. Emma’s, too.

It was one she had learned the hard way a long, long time ago.

“And you were coming from?”

“Work,” Emma said. “My home office.”

Mary Margaret nodded again. “Did you know her well? Either of them?”

“Never met Regina Mills before tonight,” Emma said. _If_ you could call that a meeting. “But Milah--” Emma swallowed.

“You were close?”

Emma shrugged. “I did work for her.”

Nine years, almost, she’d known Milah. It felt like a lifetime.

“And you saw the shooter?”

Emma looked up. Had she? She closed her eyes. There was something, maybe--a grey sweatshirt? A hoodie and--

\--sneakers.

 _Sneakers_. Running shoes.

“I saw him before,” Emma said. “On the street. He was jogging.”

Jogging in the _fucking rain_ , what had she even been thinking--he was casing the place.

Mary Margaret said, “You think he was checking the place out?”

Emma’s respect for the woman went up several notches. “Yeah,” she said. “Must have been. White guy. But I didn’t notice his hair, because of--”

“The hoodie,” Mary Margaret nodded. “Maybe we can get you together with a sketch artist--”

“Sure,” Emma said, tonelessly.

Mary Margaret reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle of water. A kiddie-sized one that made Emma want to smile. She handed it over and Emma twisted the cap off and took a tentative sip before she spilled a little on her hands, but the blood was already dried and cakey.

Another cop, a woman, red hair pulled back in a high ponytail, came up behind Mary Margaret and tapped on her shoulder and--

Emma knew before she even said the words. The shock blanket crinkled as Emma tried to pull it more tightly around herself.

“Emma, I’m really sorry, but--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not a law-enforcement expert, or a journalist, or an attorney. i'm sure that's obvious. but i love romantic suspense, and procedurals. this story is inspired by the laura griffin tracers series, especially _untouchable_ , _her deadly secrets_ and _dangerous girls_.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Killian Jones was staring at the table when the phone started to ring.

He let it.

He was on edge; he needed food, a shower, several days of uninterrupted sleep-- _answers_. His normally-immaculate apartment was in shambles, his work everywhere, his laptop abandoned and its screen glowing in a corner. His beard itched and his skin crawled and scrubbing a hand down his face did nothing to mitigate either of those problems.

It was old shit being stirred up again. That was the problem The kind of shit he never wanted to think about, old versions of himself that were better kept buried.

He wanted to be a man with no past.

Killian stared at the table as if it had the answers he needed--to his problems, to his _questions_.

The phone started to ring again, the name on the caller ID flashing and Killian could feel the man’s emotion and his worry and his urgency and finally he picked it up.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I saw the news,” Nemo said. “I wasn’t sure--the name--”

“Yeah,” Killian said again. “It was her. Milah. _My_ Milah. She’s dead.”

“Son, I’m sorry,” Nemo said.

It was funny, how old habits came screaming back right along with the old shit and the old versions of Killian Jones. He hadn’t thought of her as _his_ \--had barely thought of her at all--in more than ten years. But he’d heard it on the scanner and he _knew_.

It was her.

“Are you okay?” Nemo asked.

Killian knew what he was asking. He stared at the table for a second before he cut his eyes to the ceiling and said, “Yeah.”

“You should have phoned me last night, Killian. Anytime. You know that. You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Killian said.

No.

“Killian.” Each syllable was an enunciated sigh that sounded like a deflating balloon. “Do you need me to come over? Do you need me to take you to a--”

“No.” Killian sat up. “No, not really, I’m not okay, but also--no. You don’t need to come here. It’s not because--”

The line went quiet as Nemo waited for Killian to find the right words; Killian really _should_ have phoned him last night.

That’s what sponsors were for.

Killian leaned back in his chair again, banging his head against it. Finally he said, “I heard from her. Recently. But not about-- _us_.”

“Oh?” So many meanings encased in two small letters and Nemo conveyed all of them.

“It was a long time ago, Nemo,” Killian said. “It’s over. This was about something else. She found something.”

“Oh?” Even more meanings this time.

“It must have been something important--something she thought I could use. There’s no other reason she would have reached out. This is about _him_ , I’m sure of it.”

“You didn’t call her back?” Nemo carefully kept all emotion out of the question. It was, simply, an invitation to talk more.

“It was a text. And no.” Killian did _not_ look at the table when he said it.

“You know that was the right choice, son. You had no way of knowing--”

“I know.” Softly.

Nemo was patient, waiting silently for Killian to continue.

“I’ve been covering the French case. She must have been--I think they tried to take out the legal team last night, and got Milah.”

“You’re sure?”

“No, of course I’m not sure,” Killian snapped. “But this is what I do, Nemo. If Milah was investigating Belle French’s case--and that case stinks to high heaven, I promise you--then I missed something. _Everyone_ did. Milah must have _finally_ found the link that would bring that bastard down. And he--he must have--” Killian turned to his laptop in the corner, his fingers itching in a different way now, studiously avoiding the table as his gaze scanned the room. “He must have killed her for it. He _must_ have.”

“What about the attorney? I know you know her.”

“Proud papa strikes again.” But Killian had a small smile as he said it.

“I follow your career, Killian. I’m proud of you--you know that. Your profile of Regina Mills in the _Mirror_ bordered on glowing. Are you telling me it wasn’t a coincidence?”

“I can only go where my assignment editor points me, Nemo. That’s the truth.”

Or at least, it wasn’t a lie.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When Nemo asked, “What are you going to do?” he sounded resigned.

“I’m going to write the story,” Killian said. “And that monster is finally going to end up where he belongs.”

Nemo sighed again.

“Keep your head on straight, son,” Nemo said. “And stay in touch. That’s an order.”

“Right,” Killian said. “Will do.” He disconnected the call and put his phone down and exhaled, full of purpose--undoubtedly Nemo’s intention. One last rub at his itchy beard before he stood up. A hand through his hair. In ninety seconds, Killian was closing the door behind him, his keys rattling in one hand, his phone in his pocket, his laptop case slung over his black leather jacket. He put his sunglasses on and pulled himself upright, practicing the smile he would need to get into Regina Mills’ office.

He did not look at the unopened bottle of rum on the coffee table on his way out.

\--

Emma knew how to look good on a shoestring budget--professional, dressed up or down--but when she woke up she had the sun in her face, her hair in her mouth, and a screaming headache. Her car was still at Regina Mills’ house and she’d spent half the night with the homicide cops, Blanchard and Delamare, who’d rolled out to the scene and now she was, of course, late.

She shrugged into her favorite sweater with one of her black knit pencil skirts and didn’t even look at her heels before going for her knee-high boots and her red leather jacket.

Armor.

Not just looking good--or good enough--but feeling strong.

Emma had a feeling she was going to need it.

The shock of last night hadn’t even begun to dissipate yet, not that Emma had any idea how to grieve a woman as complicated and difficult as Milah was.

 _Had been_.

Not that Emma had any interest in unpacking any of the emotions that were threatening to spill out--not today, not ever.

She had a job to do, first and foremost.

She also needed to get her car. With a heaving sigh Emma swiped her phone and opened the ride-sharing app. If she was very, very lucky--and managed to keep this job--maybe Regina would let her expense it. But--

“You’re late,” Regina said, leaning an elbow on her desk and rubbing her temple.

“I’m sorry. My car--” had been _fucking towed_. Of course. Which meant _another_ Uber from Regina’s house to her office, which was every bit as imposing as the house had been. Slee; black and glass and chrome and every inch screaming ‘money’.

Regina gave herself a shake and stood up. She had her arm in a sling, the only sign that she had also been injured in last night’s melee. Maybe she was a little pale, but compared to Emma she was a fully-functioning human and looked it. Emma ran a hand through her hair hurriedly, pulling it into a ponytail with the tie she kept on her wrist.

Then Regina did something unexpected: She smiled. It wasn’t warm or friendly--it was a weapon in her arsenal as much as anything else--but Emma still found herself relaxing, just a little bit. “Miss Swan,” she said.

And then Emma tensed up all over again as it struck her that Regina had said exactly the same thing last night just before Milah--

She winced.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet properly last night. Milah speaks-- _spoke_ \--very highly of you.”

Emma nodded.

“I’ve spent several hours this morning with the detectives assigned to the investigate her death. They’ve made no arrests and have no suspects and, frankly, I do not expect them to find any.” Regina pursed her lips, her gaze turning for a moment away from Emma, as if she was debating something. “Their working theory is that the gunman, whoever he was, took the laptops and cell phones.”

It pained Emma to think of Milah dying over a laptop, but it made the look in her eyes--frazzled, nervous, excited--make a little more sense. Emma pulled at the end of her ponytail. “Is that way you think?” she asked, mostly to cover up the fact that she hadn’t known.

“That depends, Miss Swan. I think it is entirely possible that _someone_ is trying to throw a wrench into Belle’s defense by gunning our team and stealing the case files.”

“That’s--aggressive,” Emma murmured. “For a case being covered as a garden-variety domestic? Who could possibly care that much?”

Regina’s look was assessing. Speculative. “I’m wondering if what you brought to my house last night might help us to answer the question,” she said.

Emma stood up a bit straighter as she handed over the manilla folder. “One of the witnesses,” she said. “Something didn’t track, so I kept digging. I couldn’t trace is work history. Turns out he used to work at a pawnbroker’s shop. Antiques, you know. Not great about filing his 1040s.” It was such a small thing, Emma thought.

But Regina Mills was smiling--for real, now. “A pawnbroker,” she said. “That’s excellent news.”

“It doesn’t connect to Belle at all,” Emma said, trying not to make it a question. This small thing and yet last night it had felt like the _biggest_ thing. An opportunity to impeach the credibility of a major prosecution witness, to make the district attorney look weak in front of the jury and the judge. Maybe even something that could lead to bigger fish. _If_ Emma could connect the dots. “No one would break into Belle’s lawyer’s house just to find _that_ ,” she said. “And if they wanted to hurt you, why aren’t you dead?”

“I don’t think they wanted to hurt _me_ ,” Regina said, the file open in her hands as she continued to read it. She didn’t say anything else for at least two minutes and when she spoke again all she said was, “The trial starts Monday. I plan to ask for a continuance but I don’t have especially high hopes.”

“Spencer is going to object,” Emma said. “You’re not going to get it.”

“No,” Regina agreed, one eyebrow up as if Emma had impressed her. “I’m not. Listen, Miss Swan, Milah had something. Something we don’t know yet. And now she’s dead.”

“It wasn’t this,” Emma said. “I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell her yet.”

“I know,” Regina said. Her gaze was assessing again, her lips pursed in concentration. “You need to be careful, Miss Swan. I’ve hired extra security--”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Emma said. Besides, what could be that important about a sketchy antiques place? What does that have to do with our case?”

“It’s a front,” came a voice from the doorway before Regina could say a word. “They’re laundering money, you know. Spinning crap into gold.” The speaker, a thin man of medium height, held his hand up and rubbed his fingers together. His black hair stuck up at all angles and days-old stubble covered the bottom half of his face. He wore dark sunglasses and he looked hungover, though Emma couldn’t smell any booze.

Before Emma could ask, Regina snapped. “Jones,” she said, looking as if someone had dragged dog shit into the pristine environs of her office.

“That’s not happiness to see me, is it?” He pulled his sunglasses off and Emma had to take a deep breath. _Damn_. He brushed hair out of his face with a hand weighted down by chunky rings that, on anyone else, would have looked like a costume instead of like they were a part of him. They matched his old-fashioned waistcoat that he wore unbuttoned over a blue t-shirt with a V-neck and still managed to make work, somehow, even with the chain dangling down in the vee displaying charms that complemented the rings on his fingers.

It wasn’t her fault that she got distracted--that was a lot to take in on exactly two hours of sleep. Jones--whoever he was--had all of his focus on Regina, his mouth suddenly curved into a smile that would light up the city, his blue eyes twinkling as he oozed charm. “Regina.” His posture shifted and the messy hair now seemed like an affect instead of an accident, his voice as smooth and buttery as the worn-in leather of his jacket.

Regina’s mouth curved but the rest of her face remained still as they stared at each other in some silent game of chicken. But, finally, she gave in.

“Jones,” she said again. There was a question in her tone but an actual smile on her face again, her eyebrows raised in appreciation.

“Pardon my interruption,” Jones said.

Regina just pointed at him, her smile fading into something easy and familiar while she turned her attention back to Emma. “I want to bring you in on this case, Miss Swan. Full-time. I know you’ve been working on the side for us all along, but I need you now. Are you up to it?”

This was both exactly what she wanted and terrifying--the thought of losing her autonomy did _not_ sit well with Emma.

“I will triple your previous rate,” Regina said.

She hated suits and meetings and being under anyone’s thumb and it wasn’t hard to guess that Regina would be a _heavy_ thumb, and quick to press hard when she was unhappy.

“Of course I am,” Emma said.

“I’m very eager to see what you come up with. You’ll meet the team back here when I say so and be ready. You have access to her office?”

There was a gleam in Regina’s eye and Emma’s bullshit detector went off. Regina wasn’t telling her everything.

“She would have kept everything important at home,” Emma said.

It didn’t matter.

She needed the money.

She needed the job.

She needed to figure out what happened to Milah, and why.

“Her home, then. You have access?”

“Of course,” Emma said, crossing her fingers behind her back. She heard Jones snicker.

“Good. And _be careful_.” Regina nodded, satisfied. “Are you still here? Now’s not a good time, obviously.”

This last was directed back at Jones, who sighed and dialed back the wattage into something easier to look at than the freaking sun. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” he said.

Regina smirked. “I’m a mess, obviously--and _off the record_.”

“Aren’t we all?” Jones said. Everything dialed back even further, the charm disappearing as he leaned against the door and ran a hand through his hair again.

“I don’t have anything for you,” Regina said. It was very nearly an apology; he nodded and turned as if to go. “And I wouldn’t give you anything even if I did. My entire focus has to be on my client. But, Jones--”

He half-turned back into the room.

“I really am sorry,” Regina said. “I know you want this as much as I do.”

He nodded and bowed himself out.

Literally.

Who did that?

“Miss Swan.” Regina’s voice snapped her back into focus. “I’ll see you soon.”

It was not a request.

\--

He was in the elevator lobby and Emma tried to ignore him but it was impossible.

First, he smiled again. _At_ her this time. Heard her coming and straightened himself up and turned around wielding that thing like a goddamn weapon.

Emma blinked.

She shook her head.

She blinked again.

Because this man could not be real.

He smiled, and she knew just by looking at him that it had gotten him out of trouble more times than it should have.

It was not possible for a man to be this beautiful.

Oh, _shit_ , had she said that out loud?

No. Emma shook her head again. No.

He stared at her, too. Pressed the button for the elevator and there was a long moment of silence before he spoke. “I apologize. We weren’t properly introduced, and it was very rude of me to barge in there when a woman such as yourself deserves my full and prompt attention.”

Emma had to choke back a laugh, which made her head hurt. The _fuck_ kind of line was that, anyway?

He blushed and worried at one of his rings before he held out a hand. “Killian Jones,” he said, smiling again. He said it like he was waiting for a reaction--either to the name or to the line--but she just stared at him, with that genuine contrition in his voice, and took his hand.

It was very warm.

 _Very_.

And it was hard not to stare when he was looking at her like that, _full and prompt attention_.

“You’re right about Spencer,” he said, taking her silence as some kind of invitation. “Bastard is trying to push this case through no matter what, and he’s been on it since day one. It’s an ego thing, I guess. ‘Law and order’.” Jones made finger quotes. “But really, he’s just an asshole with a bullshit case. So, you’re on the defense team?”

“Not exactly,” Emma said. “Listen, I--”

The elevator doors slid open.

“Miss Swan--:

“Do _not_ call me that.”

He grinned. “Ma’am--”

“Try it,” Emma said. “See how that goes for you.”

His grin widened and he bowed, ironically. “Milady?” He held a hand out, gesturing for her to precede him into the car.

Emma snorted.

“Swan, then,” he said. He looked at her expectantly but Emma was staring at the lights above the doors, trying to give herself just a few seconds to think. Full-time pay with Regina would keep her in more than Netflix and Pop Tarts, for starters--she’d be able to get her car fixed--

 _Shit_. Her car.

Jones was still looking at her.

“So,” she said. “How do you know Regina?”

He looked surprised. “I’m covering the French case. Did a profile on Regina a while back, about her approach and her practice.”

“Oh,” Emma said. “Okay.” That explained exactly nothing. Emma went back to staring at the lights.

“I write for the _Mirror_ ,” he said, as if he expected her to know that. “I’m _Killian Jones_.”

“Yeah, you said that already,” Emma said. “You seem to know each other pretty well.”

Which was _not_ what she meant to say, not at all--she wanted to know about this whole “bullshit case” business, but--

“No,” Jones said, looking sideways at her.

“Excuse me?”

“No, we weren’t sleeping together.” He adjusted the strap on his laptop case.

“Good for you?” Emma said. The elevator doors opened again and the sunlight from the lobby flooded in. She stepped out with a sigh, reaching for her phone in her pocket.

His hand was on her arm. “I don’t sleep with sources,” Jones said. “Bad form, you know. It’s really best to keep it professional.”

Emma put her hand on his to move it and said, “I’m not one of your sources, Jones.”

His face lit up again, full charm offensive activated. “Is that so?”

She picked his hand up off her arm and dropped it, deliberately. “Please,” Emma said. “You couldn’t handle it.” The eyebrow and the smile were doing some kind of witchcraft on her insides, that was the only explanation. She’d hit her head.

Literally.

She had the bruises to prove it.

And she didn’t have time for it, but it felt nice, this, after everything. After last night.

Jones threw his head back and laughed and there was something--she didn’t know-- _genuine_ in the sound, a real expression from him for the first time since he’d appeared in the doorway.

Killian Jones had a great laugh and Emma couldn’t help smiling, just a little.

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it,” he said with his raised eyebrow and a delighted smirk. “You’ve really never heard of me?” He looked like he was going to pout if she said no again.

“Depends,” Emma said, putting her phone back in her pocket. “Any chance you’ve got a car here?”

\--

Detective Blanchard was waiting for her when she--they--finally made it to the police station. She smiled at Emma but threw a look at Jones as she crossed her arms. Mary Margaret was unswayed by his smile, staring down at him like a disappointed schoolteacher for all that she was at least eight inches shorter than he was.

“So glad you could make it,” she said, directing it at Jones rather than at Emma, which made her snicker and shoot a sideways glance at him. He winked.

They were late; Jones wouldn’t let Emma drive to the station, for all that she had sweet-talked him into giving her a ride to the impound lot. He’d _reached into the car_ to stop her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“That’s quite a vessel you captain there, Swan. But your tires are low. And bald,” he said. “And it sounds like you have a knock in the engine.”

Mary Margaret gestured for Emma to follow her and gave another glare when Jones kept stride with them.

She stopped. “No,” she said. “You’re not coming.”

“Come on, Snow,” he said, waggling his eyebrows as if that would change her mind.

“Not helping your case,” Mary Margaret said. She put her hands on her hips.

“I’ve got him!” The red-haired detective from last night--Delamare, Ari-something Delamare--came around the corner and Jones smiled at her and waved.

Emma only knew her first name because Jones had said it. He called her _Ari_.

He’d had his phone out before Emma could even protest--she didn’t need some white knight or a bodyguard--”Ari, hi. It’s Killian Jones.” _Pause_. He smiled into the phone, leaning easily against Emma’s car. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry to be so predictable, but how’s this for a surprise? I’m with--” he looked at her and her mouth was open and she was _staring at him_ , halfway between rage and amusement as she mouthed her name “--Emma Swan. She had a car issue.” _Pause_. The smile faded and something sad flashed across his face before it was gone again. He was all business. “Yeah, I’m happy to drive her over but we’re going to be a little late.” _Pause._ A wry smile, this time. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint Snow, but needs must and all of that.” _Pause_. “Right. Bye.”

Emma’s mouth was still open as he had opened the car door for her and held out his hand. “And now, milady Swan, what do you say we set sail?”

Now Detective Blanchard was doing her disappointed schoolteacher look again, or still, encompassing the redhead--Ariel--this time before she sighed and led Emma to an empty interview room.

Jones and Ariel were laughing about someone named Eric as he gave her a stupid little salute, two fingers flickering from his eyebrow in Emma’s general direction.

Emma sat down and looked around the room while Mary Margaret poured two cups of coffee from an ancient drip machine in the corner and handed her one. _Snow_. It sounded like an inside joke, only Detective Blanchard didn’t seem to think it was amusing.

“Like Snow White,” Mary Margaret said, correctly interpreting Emma’s awkward silence. “You know, Blanchard. Killian Jones is always laughing at jokes only he thinks are funny.” The detective shook her head but couldn’t completely hide the flutter of affection under the annoyance and Emma smiled.

Mary Margaret smiled back. “Okay,” she said, folding her hands on the table. “I’m going to get straight to it, Emma. There’s a lot we still don’t know, but it doesn’t look like this was a typical armed robbery. We’re treating it as a targeted hit.”

The small smile on Emma’s face seemed to melt away as a vision flashed in front of her, Milah on the floor, gasping, and she knew, suddenly, that she would never be able to get that sound out of her head for the rest of her life. Emma’s grip around the coffee cup tightened as she looked at Mary Margaret.

“You don’t seem--surprised,” Mary Margaret said.

“Regina Mills mentioned it.” Emma shrugged. “I’m not sure it makes any sense to me. Who would want to hurt Milah? And if they were after Belle French or her case, why would Milah be the target?”

Mary Margaret pursed her lips. “You think this has to do with the case you were working on.”

Emma swore to herself. Something about this woman invited confidences. She shook her head. “You tell me,” she said.

“It’s maybe not a bad idea. Given the circumstances.” Mary Margaret said.

Emma stared--because it still didn’t make sense. None of it did.

No one following the case would have any idea that Milah existed, or that she was a PI with a long record of successes. None of the news coverage mentioned her--none of the documents. Emma wasn’t even sure Belle knew who Milah was.

“We think,” Mary Margaret said, “that Milah had something, or maybe she knew something--” she trailed off, as if she expected Emma to fill in the rest.

But Emma was silent.

“Did she have any enemies that you know of? People who had threatened her? Someone who might have a grudge?”

“Really,” Emma said. “I have no idea. Start with every cheating husband she ever tracked down.” She bit her lip, wishing she had a notebook or a recorder, _something_. “Her ex. I don’t know.”

“How long did you know her, Emma?” Mary Margaret was gentle. She reached across the table and grasped Emma’s wrist just for a second before she let go. Her head was tilted and her green eyes were wide and imploring.

“Almost nine years,” Emma said. “But I didn’t work with her that often. She threw me referrals. Helped me stay afloat.”

“And she was married, you said?”

“A million years ago. Before we ever met. She never talked about it.” Emma shrugged.

“You were close?”

Emma shifted in her chair. There was no good way to answer that, nothing--no matter how much the detective made it seem like girl talk--that she was ready, or willing, to share.

She thought again of Milah on the floor.

“Emma, please,” Mary Margaret said. “Anything you can tell me might help, I promise.”

Emma closed her eyes and saw the pillow. The blood. She touched her cheek and heard the gunshots. When she opened them she looked at Mary Margaret and said, “I met Milah when I was nineteen years old. She was working mostly as a skip-chaser back then.”

“A bounty hunter?” Mary Margaret looked surprised. “How did you meet?”

“I skipped parole,” Emma said. “She was hired to find me.”

\--

Killian tried to keep his eyes on the road instead of watching Emma Swan.

It was more difficult than it should be and it bothered him.

He watched the shadows cross her face as she leaned against the glass and he noticed the bruise on her cheek and the small cut. He’d noticed it at the impound lot as he watched her fill out the paperwork with what seemed like exasperated familiarity, lots of sighing and huffing, but in this light it looked even more like a shrapnel wound.

She had _been there_ , last night. It made him uncomfortable and sad and that bothered him, too.

She didn’t need a white knight--she had told him so herself--she worked alone “by preference,” she said, even after she’d sweet-talked him into driving her to the impound lot.

“You’re the one that asked _me_ to come here,” he reminded her with a grin to soften the blow. “I’m happy to keep earning my stripes as a chauffeur if you’re willing to call for a tow. Think of it as teamwork, love, not a rescue.”

“Not your love,” she said, and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. She’d looked exhausted and so small, sort of like she did right now.

Yeah, she was headstrong--and gorgeous--and that combination had never been good news for Killian Jones--something Ariel had noticed immediately, her grin inappropriate under _any_ circumstances but especially these and he rolled his eyes at her when she had said, “So what’s your deal with the PI, Jones? You know she doesn’t need your kind of trouble.”

It was a joke--Killian knew that Ariel meant nothing more by it than simple teasing between friends. It was not a mental path even worth taking.

He’d covered it up with his best pout and angled his head and batted his eyelashes. “Hey, you want to do me a favor?”

“And literally every hair on the back of my neck stood up when you said that,” Ariel said. “But I know you, Jones.” She carefully put down the file she was holding on her desk. “Police report.” She took a sip of her coffee and glanced around, waving at Ashley Boyd when the blonde gave them a tight smile and turned back to her computer. Ariel winked at Killian over her mug and shrugged.

“You know Ashley is testifying next week for Spencer,” Ariel mused.

“I do know,” Killian said. “And I’m telling you that Belle French did not kill Will Scarlet.”

“Where’s the story, Jones?” Ariel asked, pointing a finger at him. “Where’s the proof? We can only go on what we have.”

He didn’t have one.

He didn’t _have_ one.

That was the problem. And _that_ was why Milah was dead.

Not his fault--nothing he could have done.

(That’s not what the rum bottle had told him.)

 _I have something for you_.

He hadn’t told Regina about the text.

But Milah _found something_. And Killian was going to find it, and he was going to print it, and he was going to put the bastard who did this to her where he belonged.

Killian had shook his head very slightly to put his focus--his _full and prompt attention_ , and he was lucky Swan hadn’t hit him for his cheek--back on Ariel, who was still speaking.

“This attack can’t be good for him and his case. Any idea what they were after?”

Killian raised an eyebrow.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Ariel took another sip. “You’re telling me that it’s a coincidence you went after the main witness in a homicide, that you’re not working an angle for a story?”

“I was just trying to be helpful,” Killian said.

“Killian Jones, always a hero,” Ariel said, reaching over the table to touch his wrist.

Killian pulled away, uncomfortable. “I only met Miss Swan this morning.”

Ariel’s smile was sad, this time. Understanding. Killian shifted in his chair.

“Right,” Ariel said. “And how, exactly, did you meet?”

“She’s on the defense team, detective,” he’d said. He was not going to let Ariel interrogate him

Ariel didn’t know what he knew, about Milah. About Belle.

About what tied them together.

Ariel was a good friend. _And_ a good source, which was no small thing when the district attorney, Albert Spencer, was always on the lookout for unauthorized leaks that might harm his cases or influence his jury pools. She was risking her career, her credibility, her position in the department as one of only three female detectives just by sitting with him in the bullpen, drinking coffee while they waited for Emma Swan.

He wasn’t going to compromise Ariel’s reputation by taking more than she could give, and he wasn’t going to compromise himself by telling her more than she could reasonably be trusted with.

Especially since cops made mistakes. All the time.

So Killian wasn’t going to tell her that he had gone to Regina Mills’ office in a half-cocked attempt to _do something,_ to trade on their--acquaintance--or the late nights that could have turned less-than-professional. Wasn’t going to tell her how desperately he felt the need to _do something_ that the police seemed either unwilling or unable to do. Was the old bastard really that clean or was there something else going on?

Killian didn’t know. And he wasn’t going to risk Ariel to that, either.

“Tell me about last night,” he said now, and he could hear Emma swallow.

“What about it?” He could hear her swallow, her voice muffled by the glass and he could see the condensation from her breath in a small patch on the car window. “How about you tell me about the money laundering?”

“It’s easy enough,” Killian said. “No inventory. Nothing traceable. Paper records that are easy to alter.”

“Another story,” Emma muttered. “What does that have to do with Belle French?”

It somehow didn’t surprise him that Milah hadn’t told her. Or Regina, for that matter.

Most likely neither of them thought it was relevant until it was too late.

Killian shrugged. “I’d like to know what happened.”

Her voice changed, lowered. “Your red-headed friend didn’t tell you? That file you shoved into your bag wasn’t the police report?”

“The killer took a shot at you, Swan.”

“I know, okay? He missed. I’m fine.”

She was so obviously lying that he wanted to pull over and grab her hand and--

That kind of violence stayed with you. He knew. So did the rum bottle.

“You’re upset,” he said instead.

“How the hell would you know?”

“ _You were shot at_ ,” he repeated. “But you’re also something of an open book, love And you get snippy when you’re upset.”

“Don’t you mean _bitchy_?” Emma threw a disgusted glance at him. “How original. Definitely never heard that one before.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” She rested her head on her palm and huffed out a breath, blowing her hair out of her face. There was something about her--the look in her eyes, maybe. He recognized it for what it was, the look you get when you’ve been left alone. But she’d made him laugh, and smile, and charmed him into chauffeur duty without even trying.

It was almost like they were a team, or something.

(It was not a path worth taking.)

“I apologize,” he said. “And it’s not something I do very often, so treasure it. But it’s been a rough couple of days for me, too, and I’m just trying not to--” Killian took a deep breath. “I’m trying to stay in the moment, here and now, focused on _this_. When I work a story, there’s nothing else. All I care about is protecting my sources. Finding the truth. That requires trust.”

“This is a story?” Emma was incredulous “This, right now, is you working on a story?”

“The most important one I’ll ever write, if I can get it,” he said.

“You want me to trust you?”

He nodded. “Try something new, maybe.”

There was a loud sigh next to him and Killian looked over as Emma sat up from the window and said, briskly, “Take a left at the next intersection. Milah’s office is in the two-story brown building.”

She used to talk about setting up an office, someday. An operation that would help her make enough of a living to help other women like her--people who needed help getting out. Escaping.

People like Belle French.

“You can park here on the right,” Emma said, pointing.

But Killian kept driving.

“Hello?” Her eyes flashed pure annoyance.

He shook his head. “Bad idea, love. It’s being watched.” He pointed.

“Shit,” she muttered. “You’re sure?” She turned around in her seat and was quiet for a minute, watching. “The gray Taurus?”

Killian nodded, impressed. “Yeah.”

“Shit,” Emma said again. She was quiet for a moment, clearly thinking. “You think it’s the cops?”

He shrugged and put his blinker on. Kept driving. Didn’t answer.

“You think it’s _him_ \--them--whoever did this.” Her hand hovered over his on the gearshift. “They’re watching the office. For what? Why? What could she have that someone wanted? What was worth killing for?”

“I wish I knew,” Killian said--meant every word--but it was as if his voice pierced the moment between them.

Emma turned on him. Her hand dropped. “Why did you show up at Regina Mills’ office this morning?”

“I heard about the incident on my police scanner,” he said. “I wanted to follow up, learn more.”

“For a story?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed.

It was quiet for a few minutes, then he said: “How’d you get into this?”

“What, PI work?” Emma looked at him and turned back to the window. “I’m good at it.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said

Milah wouldn’t have been giving her work if Emma Swan wasn’t excellent at what she did, no matter how many other reasons Milah had to keep her around.

Milah always had reasons.

Killian was going to find out what those reasons were.

He wondered if Emma knew, herself.

He wondered if he could trust her.

“How did you meet Milah?” he asked.

Emma turned in her seat and stared at him. Her eyes were still narrow. “How did _you_ meet her?” Her body tensed. “This is about her, isn’t it? She was _more_ than a source, wasn’t she?”

Killian made another turn. Emma said: “Pull over.”

It was not a request.

“Right now, Jones, pull over, I’m getting out. You talk a big game. Trust or whatever. But _I_ lost a friend last night. I almost--” she paled.

Killian’s grip on the steering wheel tightened but he didn’t say anything.

“Let me out,” Emma said.

Blinker on, he pulled over. Emma unbuckled her seatbelt and didn’t even look at him before she opened the door and climbed out.

 _Fuck_ , Killian thought, and drove away.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma threw on her darkest jeans, a black shirt and some old boots. She left her red leather jacket behind but collected a few supplies and zipped them into a black backpack. She tied her hair into a knot and tucked it under a black cap on her way out the door.

She considered, briefly, calling Jones--discarded it just as quickly. Fuck that guy.

 _Please_. The thought rose unbidden. _You couldn’t handle it_.

He knew Milah. He _knew_ Milah. Emma was sure of it. 

Killian Jones with his “trust me” bullshit and his stupid blue eyes was telling her only a fraction of what he was up to. It was there, underneath the surface, in the way he moved and the way he spoke. He was a reporter on a story and he wanted what she knew and he would use any tool in his arsenal if Emma let him.

The strange thing was that a part of her--not a small part, either-- _wanted_ to trust him. Something had happened. She made him laugh. He made her smile. It was, in the midst of everything, a moment.

But his charming act was just that--an _act_ \--and she’d been down that road before.

Not this time.

Emma popped the locks on the Beetle and opened the window as she got the car started. She’d had the car towed, all right--towed right back to her driveway. Fingers crossed and praying the entire time Regina would let her expense it.

If she was going to have any hope of impressing Regina, she needed to do this.

Her bag was on the passenger seat as she got underway, avoiding the highway just in case and keeping the car at a _leisurely_ pace as she drove toward Milah’s neighborhood.

The engine light was still on. Emma gritted her teeth.

Milah’s house had a small but tidy yard, a driveway and a one-car garage with a back door that led to the house’s deck. Milah was--had been--just another anonymous middle-aged lady in a neighborhood full of them. Emma parked a few houses away and walked confidently, jangling her keys. She belonged here. She wasn’t hiding.

There was a picket fence separating Milah’s driveway from the yard; some neighbor’s yappy dog heard Emma open the unlocked gate. It was fine.

There was no yellow police tape--no sign of forced entry. Emma’s was the only car in the street. Whoever was watching Milah’s office wasn’t here. _Yet_. Emma stood for a moment to look around, but everything looked normal. Like the house was just waiting for Milah to get home again. Emma bit her lip and focused. More immediately important was that nothing looked like it had been ransacked or broken. Emma walked to the back door of the house and stood on her toes as she reached for the magnetic box on top of the door frame. She popped out the hidden key and heard the dog again, its high-pitched bark ringing in her ears.

Persistent.

Emma put the box back and took the key with her to the garage

Milah usually kept her beloved old BMW in the driveway. Part of her “disguise” but mostly because she loved that car. She loved the manual transmission and the worn leather seats and the complete lack of up-to-date gadgets. She called it her getaway car and said it was one of the first things she’d ever owned.

The garage had a keypad entry and was for the van.

Gray, nondescript, it was a mom-approved minivan that could go anywhere and never be noticed. Milah usually kept a stash of magnetic decals in the back if she needed to park anywhere, to look like a delivery van or a utility company. All three rows of seating had been removed, Emma knew, to accommodate Milah’s supplies for when the van saw action.

Emma stopped and stared. The van was exactly where she expected it to be but Milah had changed the license plates. Just--swapped them. It wasn’t until Emma opened the front door--pulled a slim jim out of her backpack and slid it next to the window between the glass and the rubber seal, heard the _click_ and got a whiff of Milah’s perfume--that she was even sure it was the _same_ van.

_Why?_

The scent enveloped her and there was a pang in Emma’s chest as she sat in the front seat and knew Milah would never sit there again. Emma put the slim jim in her bag and swapped it for a flashlight with a red filter that made the interior glow as it revealed clean floors and an empty glovebox. 

No documents.

Emma fished around under the seat and found a crumpled receipt and a Snickers wrapper. She drew in a breath--the receipt was from _three days ago_.

The day before Milah had--

Emma flattened the paper, which was from one of those fast-casual places Emma usually skipped in favor of grilled cheese over fancy salad. A sandwich and a bag of chips, no drink.

Surveillance food. No water on a stakeout, ever.

It was over by the harbor, Emma thought, and nodded with satisfaction. She refolded the receipt and stuck it into her pocket before climbing over the console and into the back of the van.

Milah had two large plastic tubs where the backseat should have been. In the first was a collection of miscellaneous crap--orange traffic cones, a yellow hard hat, a folded tripod, a reflective vest. In the second Emma found some of Milah’s camera equipment in a black nylon camera bag and Emma felt her heart race with--hope?

She ran her hands over the fabric and felt something hard and square in the side pocket: a pocket-sized spiral notebook full of Milah’s delicate--but impenetrable--cursive.

Next.

There was something in the camera card slot and Emma dug around for a plastic protective case before she drew it out.

Her breath caught. The card and the notebook went into her pocket with the receipt. She replaced everything else in the tub and had just secured the lid when--

“Did you find anything?”

Killian Jones poked his head into the car and Emma almost hit him with her flashlight when she whipped around. “Fuck!” His face looked devilish in the red glow. “You scared the _shit_ out of me!”

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Nothing.”

“You just broke into a dead woman’s car.” He took her arm to pull her out of the garage and Emma felt the warmth of his fingers through the sleeves of her shirt.

“I’m not finished here,” Emma said.

“Yes, you are,” he said. “Ask me how I found you.” 

Emma glared and he snorted something that might have been a laugh.

“Police scanner, love. There’s been a possible burglary in progress reported.”

That _fucking_ dog.

“I have a key,” Emma mumbled.

“I watched you lift the key from above the door,” he said. “Try again.”

“It’s where she keeps the spare,” Emma said. “Milah wouldn’t want me to stop digging. She’d want me to help figure out what happened.”

He was looking at her. _Looking_.

Emma wondered what he saw.

She saw a man who was a _mess_. Whatever facade he’d pulled together that day was gone. His eyes were wide, his expression worried, and Emma saw--

The look. The same look she saw in the mirror nearly every morning. The kind of look you get when you’ve been left alone.

His grip around her wrist tightened and Emma found herself wanting to reach for him, to put her hand on his--

There was the wail of a siren.

“We’ve got at least a minute or two,” Emma pleaded, and Killian shook his head.

“Stop!”

A spotlight blinded her and, beside her, Killian went still.

\--

Ariel caught up to Mary Margaret as she left the squad room. “Hey, wait up a sec,” she called. “We got the ballistics report back on the Gaumond murder.”

“Is it anything useful?” Mary Margaret was an optimist but she wasn’t hopeful about this one.

Ariel shook her head and Mary Margaret sighed. “We’ve got an ID on the type of gun but no hits in the shells. Not surprising, though.”

Exactly. The guy used a suppressor and wore a ski mask--not the type likely to use a hot weapon. 

“Think he’s a pro?” Ariel mused.

Mary Margaret’s gut said no. ”I don’t think so,” she said. “He took four shots and only made two hits? I beat that on my first rookie round.”

“Not all of us could shoot the apple off of a kid’s head. With an arrow.”

Mary Margaret grinned. “That’s just a myth, and I prefer my service weapon anyway. What do you think of Emma Swan?”

“I think Killian Jones has no idea what he’s in for with that one,” Ariel said, gleeful. 

“You’re a matchmaker, now?” Mary Margaret’s grin turned into a giggle. “But seriously, she’s been through a lot. Do we trust her?”

“She’s not a suspect,” Ariel said. “No way she pulled that trigger.”

“I agree, but she’s got a long and complicated history with our vic. We’re definitely missing something.” Mary Margaret sighed.

“That seems to be the moral of the whole story,” Ariel agreed. “Jones isn’t telling us everything, either.”

“He still on his ‘you’ve got this all wrong’ beat?”’

“Yeah,” Ariel said. “And you have to agree, Mary Margaret, this shooting is not good news for DA Spencer. Or Ashley’s original investigation. What if she missed something?”

“Ashley had a lot going on.” Mary Margaret was quick to defend her friend.

“I’m just saying, a shooting like this right before the trial is a complication.” Ariel shrugged.

“It is, you’re right,” Mary Margaret said. “I just like to see the best in people.”

“Oh, sweetie, you might be in the wrong line of work.”

Mary Margaret gave a weary chuckle. “Yeah. You might be right.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Ariel said.

“Someone should tell Jones.” Mary Margaret rolled her eyes.

Ariel laughed. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling that Emma Swan is going to make that very clear.”

The phone at Ariel’s hip started ringing. “Speak of the devil,” she said.

\--

It wasn’t the first time in her life Emma Swan found herself in the back of a police car.

But it was the first time she wasn’t there alone.

Their legs were touching.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

But they didn’t speak, either. Jones just stared straight ahead or, for variety, out the window; Emma rested her head against the seat back and closed her eyes.

“Step out of the vehicle, please,” came Ariel Delamare’s voice.

The mention of the detective’s name had gotten the beat cop to calm down enough to not arrest them on the spot; though he’d refused to turn them loose until Delamare herself showed up to vouch for them, he allowed Jones to make a phone call.

The charm released in full force, and apparently it worked across genders.

Ariel looked bemused and tired. Her ponytail was a messy topknot, now, and she showed up in her POV instead of an official sedan. “Jones, Miss Swan, you’re free to go.” She handed over their wallets, which the beat cop had confiscated.

Not arrested, but it had been a very near thing. Emma’s heart was still racing from the adrenaline, the rush of _oh shit not again_ , and then she’d seen the cop’s weapon and--

For a second, she was back in that living room. 

She was grateful to be sitting, that was for sure. Grateful for Jones’ silence and the chance to catch her breath. The brush of his leg next to hers.

Jones swung his legs out of the cruiser and pushed himself upright. In the dim light Emma could still see the way his grin lit up his face.

“Save it, Jones,” Ariel said. “It’s past my bedtime.”

“Thanks, Ari,” Jones said. He sounded sincere. “My best to Eric, yeah?”

She waved without turning around and headed back for her car.

Jones turned back to Emma and said, “You okay?”

Emma nodded and pulled herself out of the cop car, let him lead her to the Beetle and saw his Chevelle parked a few driveways back.

She opened the door to her car. “I guess you’re following me home?”

“You guess correctly,” he said.

Emma waited for him to pull up behind her and then he followed her through a string of neighborhoods, avoiding the highways that might put a strain on her car. He waited for her to pull into her driveway before he parked and walked her to her door without a word.

“ _Now_ you’re a gentleman?” Emma asked, fumbling for her keys.

“Always,” he said. He was Looking at her again.

Emma Looked back. Nodded. Exhaled.

It was the strangest thing--she didn’t want him to go.

“Would you like to come in?”

\--

Killian caught the tremor in her voice. Emma talked a tough game, like she had everything under control, but Killian knew better--could already read her. She was hanging on by a thread; it was only a matter of time before the trauma of Milah’s murder came crashing down on her. Even in the dim light he could see that the bruise on her forehead looked worse than it had in the morning. He hated looking at it.

It bothered him. And it bothered him that it bothered him.

Emma pushed the door to her ground-floor apartment open and gestured with a sigh.

“You should have an alarm system,” Killian said.

Surprise flickered across her face. Emma tossed her cap onto the sofa and pulled the elastic thing out of her hair and it fell down her back in a blonde wave before she walked straight to the fridge.

“I need a drink,” she said. “I’ve got beer and tequila.”

“I’m good,” he said. She reached to open a cabinet and Killian watched her do it. He liked watching her do it.

She noticed him watching. “You sure?”

“I don’t drink.”

“While you’re working on a story?”

“Ever,” he said. “At all. Since I was twenty-five.”

“You haven’t had a drink in ten years?”

His eyebrow went up and he let his gaze wander around the apartment--the cheap IKEA furniture, the bare white walls. There was a table piled high with computer equipment--two laptops that Killian saw, a printer, a pile of paper. He squinted and thought he saw his byline at the top of the pile.

“I told you I’m good at my job,” Emma said. “And I have, like, fifteen hours--maybe an entire day--to develop some new intel or Regina is going to fire me.”

Killian thought that was highly unlikely, but didn’t say so.

“My job matters to me. I _am_ good at my job. That’s important to me, and I intend to deliver results.”

“Why?”

 _“Why_? You mean aside from the fact that this glamorous lifestyle--” she gestured around at her apartment “--doesn’t pay for itself?”

She was challenging him. And Killian Jones loved a challenge.

She was also deflecting.

“Yes,” he said. “You almost got killed last night.”

“I figured out a long time ago that a safe, secure life wasn’t in the cards for me,” she said. “And I can’t walk away from this. There’s too many unanswered questions.”

She didn’t like unanswered questions, he could tell. But this was about Milah, too. Emma had watched a friend bleed out in front of her and that was something she could never unsee. She poured herself a generous shot and Killian leaned back against her counter and watched her take a sip. He needed to go. 

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “Another one.”

“You can start by telling me about the money laundering. How did you know? Why does it matter if some witness worked off-the-books in a pawnshop?”

There was absolutely no reason for him to be standing in her kitchen.

And yet his feet were rooted to her floor.

“She wasn’t a source,” Killian said. “Milah. She wasn’t a source. She was my first love.”

Emma’s eyes practically bulged and she finished her shot in one gulp.

“Okay.”

“I’m answering your question, Swan, I promise,” he said. “Her name wasn’t Gaumond then, either.”

“Wait.” Emma put the glass down.

“She was leaving her husband. He was--” Killian swallowed, rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “He was a sociopathic asshole, to be honest. So she left him, blew up her life, ended up reinventing herself. But I’m guessing you already know that part of the story.”

“She left her _kid_ , Jones. Her _family_. For you?”

“No,” Killian shook his head. “No, not for me. I wanted to take her away from everything, sure. But I was just the match she used to light the fire when she burned the place down.” He chuckled.

There was nothing funny, no amusement in the sound; Emma stared at him, silent and angry.

Killian thought he knew why. “I’m guessing you’re an orphan, Swan?”

“I prefer the term ‘free agent’,” Emma said. She turned and poured herself another shot. Straight tequila, three fingers.

“She preferred rum, you know,” Emma said, almost to herself.

Killian knew. He said, “Her son was grown up, she told me. I never met him. I was twenty-five years old and I was in a bad way. It was a bad situation, Swan, don’t mistake my meaning. But I loved her.”

“How is this answering my question?”

“I think that Milah found something, she _knew_ something, and that got her killed.”

“The only case we’ve been working lately is--”

“The Belle French case. Yeah.” He looked at her and waited.

“Belle French is just a woman who wanted to get away from a terrible marriage. And Spencer is a hardass and a dick with a bullshit case. You _know_ that. You told me so this morning. What does Milah have to do with--”

She sipped the tequila. Leaned back against the countertop and closed her eyes.

And Killian saw it, saw the moment she put the pieces together.

“ _Fuck_.” Emma said. “Fucking _hell_ , Jones. Are you telling me that Milah’s married name was--”

“Gold. Yeah.” He ran his hand through his hair. “The pawnshop is a front. I think it’s one of his. It’s a syndicate. It’s a black hole. If your witness worked there, it’s all part of the same case. _My_ case.”

“Milah didn’t know about the pawnshop,” Emma said. She sounded suddenly sad. Exhausted. “I never even got a chance to tell her about it.”

“I know,” he said.

“But you sound very sure. And Regina was very excited when I told her about it, which means that she knows or suspects something similar.” Emma put the glass down and rubbed her forehead. “Have you told the cops any of this? Gold’s been cleared. Air-tight alibi and no known connections to someone who might have done this.”

“Or,” Killian said, “The cops and Spencer are going for the easiest possible case.”

“But why?”

“Add it to the list of questions, Swan.”

“What about your detective friend? Delamare. You didn’t tell--?”

“Sure,” he said. It was bitter. “Because the conspiracy-minded ravings of a recovering alcoholic with a personal and difficult history with the victim definitely qualify as proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Killian licked his lips. Rubbed the back of his neck.

Worried he’d said too much.

“I’m not risking Ariel’s career over this,” he said. “Cops make mistakes all the time. It’s possible that’s all Detective Boyd did when she worked the original shooting.”

But Emma was just looking at him. He wondered what she saw, which version of Killian Jones.

“Which victim?” 

“What?”

Emma repeated herself, slowly. “Which victim? Or was it both of them?”

“I was never involved in any way with Belle French,” Killian said.

“But you know her, don’t you.” She didn’t even bother making it a question. “You were--what--keeping an eye on her?”

“I _do_ want you to trust me, you know,” he said. “I think we could be a good team.”

“Then answer my fucking questions!” Their eyes met. Again.

He was the first to look away.

“I sent her to Milah,” he said. “To disappear. I thought I could--”

“You thought you could use her,” Emma said. There was no trace of accusation in her voice and that was a mercy he didn’t deserve.

“In the end,” he said, “I just wanted to help her. She deserved to be free of him.” He sighed. “I never told the police. I had too many suspicions by then. Not even Ariel. I couldn’t make myself the story and Regina is the best there is. But I’ve been following Belle’s case since the day it happened--following Gold for even longer. And something else you should know, love: Milah texted me three nights ago.”

“Three nights ago.” That timeline meant something to her. Her eyes lit up.

“Aye. And now she’s dead.”

“She changed the plates on her van,” Emma said. She started pacing. “Regina and the cops think that Milah was the target. You say she saw something three nights ago. And when I went to the house tonight, there were fake plates on the van. The only address that van can be traced to is the office, and she switched the plates, locked everything in the van and then locked the van in the garage. So why is someone watching the office, Jones?”

“I wish I knew,” he said.

“Killian,” Emma said. “Am I in over my head?”

Her voice was, for the first time, vulnerable. He wanted to say something comforting but he could not bring himself to lie to her. He moved, starting to step closer, and she looked at him as the moment lengthened and--

He cleared his throat. “Did you find what you were after tonight?”

She turned and put her glass in the sink.

“No, but I found something. I guess it’s going to be a long night.”

And that was that.

“I’ll be around,” he said, walking to the door. “Lock up behind me.”


End file.
